farewell meynes

The weather has changed; last week the temperature dropped like a ton of bricks; the wind, that infernal Mistral, returned with a vengeance. It penetrates the walls of the house, comes up through the floors and blows through rickety windows and doors. I live in a charming, furnished refrigerator; no heat, no insulation; the stones are blocks of ice; my nose is cold, my fingertips blue.

I hung a blanket over the front door but the wind blows through the gaps. Then came the rain—cold and piercing. Last Wednesday I got into my car and drove for three hours around the grim countryside just for the comfort of the car's excellent heater. I had planned a farewell party for my French friends but had to cancel because a refrigerator is no place to entertain good people.

Where is my sun-drenched countryside? The dandelions in the garden, so full of golden optimism, turn to grey fluff and disappear. Overnight summer has changed to fall; like my aging body and face, the transformation, once started, is merciless. It beats its path of destruction without a second thought to past glory or the beauty that once was. Destruction is the rule. Creation and destruction. Vishnu Shiva. I'm thinking about India.

If bad weather isn't reason enough to leave this place, since the time of my arrival the cost of a Euro, already painfully expensive, has climbed from $1.34 to $1.42. Prices are shocking and what's worse, my waistline expands like bread in the oven; I struggle to zip up my jeans.

Here's the last straw: the church bells have gone mad. They don't chime every hour anymore but at seven in the morning and seven at night when they chime three sets of three. Nine chimes to tell us it's seven o'clock! What can this mean? And why haven't they fixed it?

I leave Meynes on October 8th., train to Paris, and fly to Bombay. I'm about ready to leave although there are many things I will miss: among them food, the great inimitable bread, pastry, cheese, and French talk radio to which I've become addicted, especially the " France Culture" stations where intelligent people converse all day long about politics, social issues, cinema, books, psychology, art, religion, all sorts of serious stuff.

And people: my handsome swain who has done his best to make my stay exciting and entertaining, and lovely Gudu, who reminds me of Simone Signoret and became my friend within minutes of our meeting. When we sit in her kitchen and talk I feel as though we've been friends for years. An ex-hippie, staunch 60's feminist, tender mother, fine artist, she teaches pottery and is a social activist who works on behalf of the immigrants whom she believes are treated unfairly in this country. She and her husband, a botanist, have invited me to a fine restaurant on Friday to celebrate our friendship.

Nicole and Lucien, retired hotel owners whose daughter lives in L.A., loaned me the radio which is a great luxury in my simple house. They took me into their hearts and gave me needed advice to help my life; we'll celebrate my departure with champagne and oysters on Saturday.

Marie and Stephan, with their sons Mathieu and Theo, are my surrogate family. I drop by their home every Wednesday after the farmer's market in Uzes and on Saturdays too. I call Steph whenever I need help, advice, information, train tickets off the internet… He loaned me his free-weights, helps me solve problems—practical and other. Marie is a dear friend; she listens to my tales, gives me fresh eggs from their hens, gives great dinner parties, and inspires me with her culinary skills. (See recipe below.) They are intelligent, lively, and still madly in love with each other, which is such a pleasure to see.

Pierre lets me use his internet and has loaned me a warm sweater; Kim and his wife Marie Claude have wined and dined me in their majestic home in Arpaillarges; and there are others too who have added to the fun and fascination of my fabulous (fattening) visit to France.
How lucky I am. I haven't forgotten the gratitude that filled me when I arrived in Meynes seven weeks ago, that thrives in me now, and will surely flood my heart when I leave.

But wait! What's this? The sun has come out, the sky is blue, the air is warm, a butterfly flutters through the garden; the luminous countryside of Provence beckons once more. I will visit Arles today to take pleasure in the light that inspired Vincent to paint his masterpieces. It's not over yet, but soon, too soon, t'will be farewell Meynes, au revoir la France.

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RECIPE

Marie blew my mind with this dish which she served with roast pork tenderloin stuffed with sage leaves. I dare you to try it. (I've translated the words but you must do a bit of research to get the weights & measures right – American style.)
Purée de Pommes de Terre à la Vanille (Mashed potatoes with Vanilla)

For 4 persons
1 kilo of potatoes (bintje or other variety for a purée)
1 stick of vanilla
20 centiliters of cream
100 grams of butter
Salt & pepper

-Brush & wash potatoes, boil in salted water 25 – 30 minutes until done.
-Drain, peel, pass through a strainer (or puree with a blender)
-Split the vanilla bean, scrape out the seeds & add to the puree.
-Heat the cream with the vanilla bean. Don't boil.

Remove from heat & let rest for a few minutes. Remove the bean.
-Beat the potato puree with a spatula adding the butter in small pieces

& the vanilla cream.
-Add salt & pepper & serve immediately.